late, I made it across the bridge to Beaufort with at least forty-five minutes to spare. The town was nestled on the Intracoastal, and I parked near the waterfront, just around the corner from the restaurant. I spotted a pair of wild horses across the waterway, grazing on one of the many barrier islands that make up the coastline of North Carolina. My grandfather told me these horses were descended from the mustangs that survived Spanish shipwrecks off the coast, but who knew if that was true?
I decided to use the extra time to browse the art galleries along the waterfront. Most of the work was by local artists, featuring either beach themes or the historic architecture in Beaufort. In one of the galleries, I saw a painting of a house where Blackbeard the Pirate had allegedly lived; I vaguely recalled that the wreck of Blackbeard’s ship, the Queen Anne’s Revenge, had been discovered in the Beaufort Inlet. The gallery owner confirmed my recollection, though he also admitted that there was some uncertainty about the whole thing. The wreck was estimated to be the correct size and the cannons they’d found on the ocean floor were from that period, but there was nothing to specifically indicate the name of the ship. It wasn’t as though they’d been able to reach into the glove compartment and check the registration, and the ocean can cause a lot of damage in three hundred years.
Wandering to the waterfront again, I noticed the sun slowly going down, casting a golden prism across the water. Heavenly light, my grandfather used to call it, and I smiled, reminiscing about all the times he’d brought me here for an afternoon at the beach, followed by an ice cream cone in Beaufort. Thinking back, I was amazed by how much time he’d been able to make for me whenever I was in town. I found myself turning again to his strange journey to Easley, my last visit with him, and his final, mystifying words to me.
Go to hell…
Not wanting to dwell on it, I shook the thought away. By then, it was coming up on six thirty, and I started toward the restaurant, wondering whether she’d show. Just then, however, I saw Natalie’s car pulling into an open space near my SUV. I turned in that direction, reaching her car just as she climbed out.
She’d changed into a flowered, high-necked sleeveless dress that accentuated her figure, and black medium-heeled boots, with a sweater draped over her arm. A thin gold chain around her neck glowed in the waning light. When she reached inside the car for her purse, I noted how graceful her every move was. Her arms and legs were lithe and toned, swishing the thin fabric of her dress around her in a tantalizing motion.
Closing the car door, she turned and startled.
“Oh, hey,” she said. “I’m not late, am I?”
“You’re actually a few minutes early,” I said. “You look great.”
She adjusted the thin necklace, as though making sure the—locket? medallion?—was hidden from view. “Thank you,” she said. “Did you just get here?”
“I came a little early,” I said. “How did your visit with your parents go?”
“Same as usual.” She sighed. “When he’s at the beach, my dad likes to read on the back porch. My mom has been slowly decorating the place since they bought it, and was dying to show me the redecorated guest room. I love them to bits, but sometimes spending time with them feels like the movie Groundhog Day, where every day is the same.”
I nodded in the direction of the restaurant. “Do you want to head over?”
“Let me put my sweater on. It’s a bit chilly, don’t you think?” She held out her purse. “Can you hold this for a second?”
As she slipped the sweater on, I found myself wondering if she felt self-conscious in her lovely, formfitting dress. I wasn’t cold in the slightest.
Wrapping it tightly around her, she took her purse back and we crossed the street. There were few other people out and about; the town, I observed, was even sleepier than New Bern.
“When was the last time you ate at the Blue Moon Bistro?”
“It’s been a while,” she said. “A year and a half, maybe?”
“Why so long?”
“Life. Work. Errands. Unless I’m visiting my parents, it’s a little out of the way. As a general rule, I tend toward quieter evenings at home.”